The Grave of Dreams 



JAMES M. HAYE 





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CQE»«GI1T DEPOSIT. 



THE GRAVE OF DREAMS 



AND OTHER VERSES 



JAMES M. HAYES 




New York 

The Encyclopedia Press, Inc. 

1917 






copyright 

The Encyclopedia Press, Inc. 

1917 



APR 15 1317 



V^ 



'CL A 4 6201 4 
I 



Why do I sing when many poets are making 

Sweet melody? 
Why do I raise my voice when they are taking 

A higher key? 
Why does the poor grass in the rose's garden 

Bloom with the rose? 
The meanest tree asks not the great oak's pardon 

Because it grows. 
Sublime the mountaitis stand in worship holy, 

Sun-crozvned, untrod; 
May not the little foothills meek and lowly 

Look up to God? 
Because majestic rivers robed in splendor 

Flow mightily, 
Shall not the wayside streams their tributes 
render, 

Unto the sea? 
Go ask the smallest of the stars of heaven 

The reason zvhy, 
When shine the glories of the planets seven, 

They light the sky. 
The answer comes that all things seek expression 

In earth and sky. 
From Hozver to star, if all make this confession. 

Then why not I? 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Grave of Dreams 1 

The Mother of the Rose 3 

Forever 3 

The Burning Bush 4 

God Alone 5 

The Transfiguration 7 

The Priest 9 

In the Cathedral 10 

Vocation 11 

Old Nuns 13 

The Annunciation 14 

A Sword shall Pierce 15 

His Last Hail Mary 17 

In Memoriam 18 

To Benedict XV 20 

A Mother's Faith 31 

A Rose Jar 33 

Heart / 34 

Memories 35 

Francis Thompson 37 

Vale 39 



THE GRAVE OF DREAMS 



Where are the hopes, the longings and desires, 
The dreams God gave me when my life was 
young ? 

They are as dust of flowers the weeds among, 
Sweet perfumed memories, the ash of fires, 

The many voiceless strings of broken lyres. 
The songs that in the long ago were sung. 

Alas, within the grave of dreams they rest ; 
Blessed with sad tears, each one was laid away. 
Though life is dreary and the days are gray 
Will not the sunset's glory glow the West ? 
Though shadows deepen, hope is in my breast. 
For starless nights must always end in day. 
The God who gave me dreams is kind. Ah then ! 
Somehow, somewhere my dreams will live again. 



THE MOTHER OF THE ROSE 



I kneel on Holy Thursday with the faithful wor- 
shipping 

Where Christ is throned in splendor as the sac- 
ramental King. 

I ever will remember it, that wondrous full- 
blown rose 
Among the burning tapers on the altar of repose. 

O blessed among roses all, to bloom in beauty 

there, 
To give your heart unto your God and in His 

glory share. 



In quiet fields beyond the town, near where the 
river flows 

There is a humble garden where a gentle rose- 
tree grows. 

Tonight Our Lord remembers on the altar of re- 
pose 

This rose-tree in the fields afar, the mother of 
the rose. 



FOREVER 



To rest on summer eves upon the grass, 
And watch the burning glories of the sky; 

To feel the soft caress of winds that pass 
Cooled by the shining waters murmuring nigh ; 

To nestle close to Nature's kindred heart, 

And feel one's self of all the world a part. 

To rest in darkened grave, 'neath cypress 
bowers, 
Upon a hillside sloping to the sea ; 

To turn to clay and feed the roots of flowers ; 
To rise on sunbeams to the clouds, and be 

Life-giving rain, that many blessings yields 

To fevered city streets and parched fields. 

Past death and grave, the body will survive ; 
Anew it lives in clay and cloud and flower; 

Since nothing dead is, is not that alive 
That made of clay a God in life's brief hour? 

If matter lives, ah, surely spirit must ; 

Shall dust have life, and spirit turn to dust? 



THE BURNING BUSH 



Strange thoughts are ever in my mind, 
Strange doubts that grieve me when I pray 

In faith I cannot comfort find, 
And God seems very far away. 

In days long dead He spoke to men, 

O, would that I were living then ! 

A rose-tree in my garden grows, 
Its perfume is as incense rare ; 

It bends with many a scarlet rose 
That speaketh of a Presence there. 

O, bright red lamps, you seem to say 

That God is not so far away ! 

And so before my rose-tree bright 
My sorrows and my doubts give way; 

No longer twilight, gloom and night, 
But sunrise, glory, and the day. 

My garden walk His feet have trod ; 

This burning bush enshrines my God. 



GOD ALONE 



I drank the cup of human love and found 
But tears of sorrow, dregs of bitterness. 

Not this, not this, but something more pro- 
found. 
To Intellect I bowed; can Wisdom bless 

By filling all my poor heart's emptiness ? 
The lonely roads of life I walked with Art ; 

And Poetry with soothing, soft caress 
My soul upraised above the sad world's mart ; 

O God, dear God, all empty is my heart ! 

My soul was filled with longings to be spent 
That other lives might drink the wine of joy. 

In losing self I thought to find content, 
By spreading gladness inward grief destroy. 

Alas, there is no peace without alloy. 
My soul is weary as the desert breeze. 

What others have how can my heart enjoy ? 
There cometh ever o'er the restless seas 

The music of far off eternities. 



The flowers of youth have faded in my life, 
Their scentless dust is scattered o'er my years. 

I fought for heart-content, but vain the strife, 
The struggle over, and I have but fears 

That all my days in this sad vale of tears 
Were idly spent, and I have missed the goal ; 

I hear the voice of judgment in my ears : 
There is no heart-content, but where the soul 

Has spurned life's all to find in God life's 
whole. 



THE TRANSFIGURATION 



He seeks the mountains where the olives grow. 
The Lord of Glory, veiled in humble guise; 
His soul is shadowed with a coming woe, 
The grief of all the world is in His eyes : 
His spirit struggles in the dark caress 
Of anguish, pain and utter loneliness. 

He always loved the mountain tops, for there 
Away from earth. He treads the mystic ways, 
And sees the Vision of the Fairest Fair, 
As Heaven dawns upon His raptured gaze ; 
The loneliness, the pain, the grief depart ; 
Surpassing gladness fills His Sacred Heart. 

That day He stood upon the olive hill, 
And Peter, James and John in wonder saw 
The burning glories of the God-head fill 
His soul with grandeur, and in holy awe 
They fell upon the ground, and cried for grace, 
Lest they should die beholding God's own Face. 



As minor chords that sob from strings of gold 
The Master speaks in accents sweet and sad: 
The Vision past, the chosen three behold 
No one but Jesus and their souls are glad. 
The awe, the splendor and the glory gone. 
How sweet the Face of Christ to look upon ! 



THE PRIEST 



He drinks the chalice of the Lord, 
Within whose mystic deep 

Commingle with the wine of joy 
The tears of all who weep. 



IN THE CATHEDRAL 



Before the Mass and ere the break of day, 
Alone within the dark cathedral aisle 

I prayed, and waited for the sun's first ray 
To flood the chancel with its glorious smile, 
I waited and my thoughts were sad the while. 

O Orient, lift up your gates of light! 
Let God the morning miracle renew. 

In golden sunshine nave and apse grow bright, 
The jewelled lancets burn and bring to view 
Carved saints and angels in resplendent hue. 

Arise, O Sun of Glory, Christ most dear ! 

Bring heavenly brightness and a radiance rare. 

Like night-hours in that old cathedral drear 
Our souls are darksome and of beauty bare. 
Our only splendor is Thy Presence fair. 



10 



VOCATION 



So delicately tender, 
The creature of an hour, 
Upon a mountain side it grew, 
A gentle little flower. 

It lived within the silence 
Wherein its life was born; 
It blossomed in the twilight 
And withered ere the morn. 

Unknown it lived, unseen it died 
Upon its lonely sod ; 
But not in vain its little life 
Before the Eyes of God. 



11 



OLD NUNS 



Our Lady smiles on youthful nuns, 

She loves them well. 
Our Lady's smile like sunshine floods 

Each convent cell, 
But fondest falls Our Lady's smile 

Where old nuns dwell ; 

Old nuns whose hearts are young with love 

For Mary's Son, 
Old nuns whose prayers for faltering souls 

Have victory won, 
Old nuns whose lives are beautiful 

With service done. 

Their love a loveless world has saved 

From God's dread rod, 
The paths where Sorrow walks with Sin 

Their feet have trod, 
Their knees have worn the flags that pave 

The house of God. 



12 



Our Lady smiles on youthful nuns, 

She loves them well ; 
Our Lady's smile like sunshine floods 

Each convent cell ; 
But fondest falls Our Lady's smile 

Where old nuns dwell. 



13 



THE ANNUNCIATION 



The Blessed Virgin lowly bowed 

To Gabriel's salutation, 
And waited, peaceful as the host 

Before its consecration. 
Till God from heaven came down to her 

In Love's supreme oblation. 



14 



A SWORD SHALL PIERCE 



In early youth, ere sorrows canie to me, 
I had the thought that Mary should have died 

Before was hers the woeful agony 
That pierced her soul when Christ was crucified. 

In later years, much sorrow makes me wise 

To know the value of love's sacrifice. 

And why should Simeon speak the dreadful 
word 
That I have sadly in the Gospels read, 

To fill her soul with anguish ere her Lord, 
A slaughtered lamb, on Calvary's altar bled? 
Dark words of Simeon shadowing forth the 

Cross ! 
Not in life's gain is joy, but in its loss. 



15 



The many happy hours my life has known 
Were not the hours when self was satisfied; 

My gladdest days were those when I did moan 
The grief another's heart had crucified. 

I understand, the thought no more annoys, 

The path of sorrow leads to endless joys. 



16 



HIS LAST HAIL MARY 



The sounds of earth are dying in his ear, 
Fade pale and dim earth's visions in his eye, 

Within his heart no struggle nor a fear, 
Upon his lips no sob or parting sigh ; 
And when they thought the hour of death was 
nigh, 

He smiled and whispered: "Is my mother near?" 
Dear hands of love she laid upon his head : 
"My child, the Mother of God you need," she 
said. 

She taught his baby lips to pray, and now 

His last Hail Mary falls upon her ears. 
"Mother of God, O pray for me !" His brow 
Reflects the glory of the eternal years. 

The Mother of God will dry his mother's tears. 
"O Mother of God, pray for my son, O Thou, 

Pray for him now, thy son and mine," she 
cried, 

"And at his death 1" He sighed "Amen," and 
died. 



17 



IN MEMORIAM 
J. C. G. 

I hold each life must end in gain. 
Though passed in rustic, lonely ways, 
Or in the city's dazzling blaze, 

No Hfe is ever lived in vain. 

The infant dying ere the light; 
Its Httle life of helpless pain, 
Its little life is not in vain, 

For aye an angel in God's sight. 

The broken harps along the way. 
The singers gone too soon to sleep. 
The world its many millions weep 

Who died before they had their day. 

Though short or long, God knoweth best, 
Though matters not when life is done, 
We long to live till setting sun, 

And die in glory of the West. 



18 



Unto thy soul be peace and bliss ; 
For thy high life we render praise ; 
Thy life so rich in deeds and days, 

Its message to the world is this : 

To higher things, with wings unfurled. 
The soul must ever struggling soar. 
Until it rests on heaven's floor, 

Above the workshop of the world. 



19 



TO BENEDICT XV 

1917 

Is there no voice to speak in God's dread name, 
No voice to war-mad nations crying "Cease" ? 
Where are the angels that on earth sang peace 
That night of nights when God from heaven 

came? 
Grown silent now they bend their heads in shame 
O'er war-swept lands where miseries increase. 

"Time was, alas, that time has passed away, 
When at the voice of him who holds the keys 
Earth's kings and peoples falling on their knees 
Would cease from war and God's forgiveness 

pray." 
Thus gentle Pius ; and he died that day, 
Sad day that dawned upon war's cruelties. 

Speak, Benedict, from highest mountain peak, 
For thine a vision is beyond our ken. 
God's voice is in thine ears ; the talk of men 
Who, without wisdom, in the valleys speak, 
Is but to thee a sound far off and weak. 
Speak with that Voice that saves the world again ! 



A MOTHER'S FAITH 



I hold the thought that God is just; 
Though all the fields of earth are red, 
Though breaking hearts uncomforted 



I hold the thought that God is love ; 
Though loveless all the world appears, 
Though hate triumphant rules the years. 

And dies the sun in heaven above. 

In faith I bend beneath His will ; 
Though He my dearest treasure takes, 
The child He gave, whose passing makes 

The music of my life grow still. 

The Hand that strikes is kind, I know ; 
With God at home, secure from harms. 
My Ghio rests within His arms 

Whose splendors blind the noon-day glow. 



31 



O, child of mine ! on heavenly shore 
One day united we shall stand, 
Where thou dost smile with beckoning hand, 

O child of mine forevermore! 



A ROSE JAR 



A breath, with incense laden 

From the centuries afar ; 
The living soul of roses 

Where the withered rose-leaves are. 
She raised the antique cover 

Of a century-olden jar. 



23 



HEART 



He lived for gold, and in its ceaseless quest 

His noblest talents spent ; 
The world applauded, but the rich man's heart 

Was filled with discontent. 

He lived for pleasure, and its scarlet flowers 

Were glorious on his breast ; 
The world was smiling, but the flowers were 
masks 

To hide the heart's unrest. 

He lived for glory, and he reached the heights 

The great alone may tread ; 
The world paid homage, but it gave no joy 

To one with heart half dead. 

He lived the life where Intellect is king, 

Where Thought is ruled by Art ; 
Above men's praise, he heard poor Goethe's cry, 

'T only care for heart." 



24 



MEMORIES 



The light of the dying sun 
Is Hngering in the west, 

Awhile, when the day is done, 
Till stars deck heaven's breast. 

The soothing sob of the sea 
Is heard, while tear drops start. 

Afar on the listening lea, 
Till comfort heals the heart. 

The grace of a kindly deed 

In after years of grief, 
The heart of a man may feed 

With thoughts that bring relief. 

A garland of roses rare. 

The gift of friends that part ; 

When the rose is no longer there 
The perfume fills the heart. 



25 



The memory of a song 

Outlives the singer's breath, 

And Love through the ages long 
Survives the lover's death. 



FRANCIS THOMPSON 



He built a mystic temple with his song ; 
Within its sanctuary he, its priest, 

In vestments gorgeous as the dawning East 
Held festival. The world, expectant long, 

For such a temple and for such a feast, 
Came as a ministering acolyte, 

With glorious service for the sacred rite. 

The jewelled whiteness of the mountain snow, 
The golden-glory glow of noon-day sun, 

The varied tints that blend in heaven's bow. 
Into a sacerdotal robe he spun. 

Behind the clouds, the moon, a veiled nun. 
In cloistered stall chants praise the night-hours 
long 

Within the temple built by Thompson's song. 

Before its altar, high, serene, apart — 
Where ever burn the sacrificial fires 

Which are the hungered cravings of the heart, 
The anguished longings of the world's desires, 

The soul's supremest thoughts when heaven 
inspires ; — 



27 



The poet stood in priestly robes ornate 
His House of Beauty there to dedicate. 

Then came the blessings of the morning's mist, 
The sheen of stars, the incense of the flowers, 

Orchestral music of the woodland bowers, 
Swept by the wind, the ancient organist. 

O splendid fane, complete from base to towers, 
Where Truth and Beauty are as heart to heart, 

And Thompson weds again the Church to Art ! 



28 



VALE! 



Good night, sweet world, good night ! 

I love not heaven less 
Because my heart has found delight 

In earthly loveliness. 

Good bye, sweet world, good bye ! 

When heavenly joys begin. 
If for the olden joys I sigh 

It will not be a sin. 

Farewell, sweet world, farewell! 

And every little while 
I'll look from where in heaven I dwell 

On thee to fondlv smile. 



29 



